Roses and Wolves
by Invisiblegirl16
Summary: Fairytales rewritten. Sometimes beasts are heroes and beauty is horrifying. Sometimes friends are enemies and enemies are friends. Sometimes glass slippers lead to cut up feet. The rest of the summary is inside. This story contains yuri (girl/girl), so don't say I didn't warn you!
1. Burning Cinders

**Summary:**

**A prince doesn't sweep the step-daughter off her feet and the princess who lived with little men and ate a poisoned apple does neither. ****The girl in the red hood is a skilled fighter. The wolf is not her opponent, but a much needed ally. Even if she denies the very true fact. ****Sometimes beasts are heroes and beauty is horrifying. Sometimes enemies are friends and friends are enemies. Sometimes glass slippers lead to cut up feet.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing (well, technically, the characters are kind of mine, they're just parodied versions of the originals, but it's easier than explaining everything).**

**Part I: Cinderella/Snow White**

* * *

**Burning Cinders**

She sat on the stone lion bench, shrouded in the mist like an apparition, a wanderer in a forgotten dream. A lost whisper taken by the wind, never to reach listening ears. If one blinked, she'd surely disappear – this girl dressed in a tatter white dress that fell to her knees. Her hands rested in her lap. Her blonde hair formed a braid down her back with red and white roses weaved in. A halo of flowers was placed atop her head.

Her arms and legs were laced with scars. Her feet were bare, the bottoms black from dirt and red from blood. But her expression wasn't one of pain. Her eyes were closed as she hummed a lullaby both foreign to her ears and yet, familiar. It was one of joy and sorrow, pain and pleasure, loneliness and love.

The feelings it produced, ones she didn't quite understand, ignited inside her from the small flame that still managed to flicker even when it seemed like nothing was there but dying coals. Like her name, Cinder.

Often she'd wonder about the woman who gave her such a name. The woman who had died giving birth to her. She vaguely remembered the soft tune her mother carried, faint until it faded away along with her life. That was it – the song she hummed now. She didn't know the words, just the tune. It was one that had haunted her for years as nightmares of a dying mother and an ailing father plagued her mind, a wicked stepmother with razor-sharp nails and her two heathen daughters, both protruding fangs from their cracked lips.

It was here, out in the woods that surrounded the Victorian-style mansion, on her favorite bench, that she could get away from them. Their dark, malicious eyes and sneering mouths. Their vicious verbal torment and physical abuse that caused her great agony and made her wish for the bite of the blade. But there was that part of her, the Cinder part, that wouldn't allow her to say die. That would just give them what they wanted and she wouldn't grant them that satisfaction.

The small hairs on the back of her neck suddenly standing on end, Cinder's eyes snapped open and what she saw took her breathe away. Her icy-blue eyes were wide and the flutter of hummingbird wings invaded her stomach.

She had skin as white as snow. Hair, black as ebony, fell down in perfect ringlets, framing her heart-shaped face. Her delicate lips were a wet kind of red, like fresh blood. She stared at her with dark eyes that were as blank as a slate. Her slender legs stride toward her as she remained seated, paralyzed, but not with fear.

There was no terror here. She felt like she had been waiting forever, for eons, for this person. This china-doll beauty. And as the mysterious girl leaned down, Cinder closed her eyes. Their lips met briefly, but, to her, it felt like a lifetime.

When the girl pulled away, Cinder ran her tongue over her bottom lip, tasted blood. A drop of crimson dribbled down the side of her mouth and dripped from her chin. It stained the dress with a perfect red circle, the color a great contrast against the white.

Blue orbs locked with black. "I am Cinder."

"I know. I've been watching you."

"I know," the golden-haired girl only now realized how true the two words were. She _did _know. It was often that she felt eyes on her, observing her every movement, but, up until now, she had never thought on it for long. There was something about the watching eyes that felt comforting, secure.

Her wandering eyes once again locked with the girl who rose from the depths of the woods like the mist that engulfed them. "Who are you?"

The girl tilted her head to the side. "I am Ivory."

**Shattered Ivory**

The reflection in the looking glass was a masterpiece. A work of art. Pure and innocent, breathtaking.

Beautiful.

How Ivory had grown to loathe that word. Although it may have been true in every way, shape, and form, that was all anyone saw of her. All they expected. Beauty. Perfection – because what was beauty without perfection?

And if there was something the least bit wrong, well, people never talked about that. They didn't notice or pretended not to. Saying or even thinking that there was something wrong with a form of perfection was surely a sin.

That was why blind eyes were often turned to the chip in the Ivory. If they didn't see it, it wasn't there. Close your eyes and the bad things were nonexistent. Ignorance was bliss and Ivory lived in an extraordinarily ignorant world.

She felt obligated to keep up the charade, to always apply herself. To make no mistake that would risk her appearing anything but perfect. It was a blessing and curse. However, most people didn't understand that. They didn't understand how someone could scorn the gift of beauty as a curse. That would make her selfish and ungrateful, wouldn't it?

Of course, most people didn't know that she felt her blessing to be a curse. They didn't ask. She most certainly didn't tell. When she was feeling down, they weren't going to question it. Inquire what was wrong, because what if what was wrong spoiled her image? Made her seem less than perfect.

It all came down to that – that one, seven-lettered, two-syllabled word. In the hours of sleep, that word had claws that sunk into her, reached deep within, curled around her still-beating heart, and ripped it from her body. The organ pulsed even outside of her body, blood fell from it, dripped onto her porcelain skin. It burned like acid, forming holes in her. Eating away at the oh-so beautifully flawless flesh.

A flash of stinging pain suddenly alerted her senses away from the gory images in her head. She opened her eyes and stared, startled and yet, relief flooded through her. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Her black eyes went from the cup she had thrown to the mirror. Both were shattered. And in her hand lay a sliver of glass. A thin cut oozed a dark pool of blood in the palm of her hand. She carefully picked up the glass and let it fall onto the wood floor. Her long, pale fingers curled into her hand, staining her fingertips in a wash of red.

She looked into what was left of the mirror, her reflection distorted. She brought her fingers to her lips, which were naturally red, the color only darkening further as the blood was applied. The metallic tasted filled her mouth. She felt so . . . savage. Wild.

Imperfect.

Ivory relished the very idea of imperfection. What would they think? Those who once thought so highly of her? Would they think she had gone mad? Off-kilter?

Or would they ignore what was so obvious? That she, in fact, _wasn't _perfect? That beauty was only skin deep?

A rush of something filled her. The need to get air. To be out there – in the wide open. So, cleansing the cut, but not the blood on her lips, she ventured out into the trees, plunging into the mist, the chill seeping inside her and nestling deep within her bones.

Out here, away from peering eyes, she felt so alive and free. The taste of it just about casted a spell on her. And then she heard the humming and was immediately placed in a trance. As always. She had heard it before and it sent the usual rush of heat through her as well as a shiver that danced up her spine. The mixed feelings differed greatly from each other, making her dizzy with wonder.

She followed the familiar sound down a familiar path and peered through trees at a familiar sight. It was her. The golden-haired angel. Her eyes were closed and her hands were in her lap. Her dress, the very same one she always adorned, was as tattered and ragged as ever. Her feet were bared and there were flowers in her hair. Her skin was marked with scars all along her arms and legs.

She was flawed.

Imperfect.

Ivory loved that about her. She was perfectly imperfect. A conundrum if there ever was one, but that was what Ivory felt. This humming girl had a pain seeping from her mouth even if she wouldn't allow herself to feel it. She was real. Human.

Something that no one would ever see Ivory as, but she wanted to learn. She wanted to learn how to be real. Human. Flawed. The longing drew her out of the trees and into the girl's view. The girl's eyes opened as she felt the presence. Her haunted blue eyes were wide, but not fearful.

As if she were attracted by a magnetic pull, Ivory found herself moving closer to the girl and did nothing to stop herself. She leaned down, eyes closed. Her lips, blood still wet, connected softly with the angel's. When she pulled away, she watched as the golden-haired girl's pink tongue flicked across her bottom lip. Blood ran down the side of her mouth and dripped onto her dress.

And then, their eyes met and she spoke.

"I am Cinder."

Cinder.

The name was a spark on her tongue. A flare inside her, making a kind of hope light up. She felt as though she could take flight.

"I know. I've been watching you." Only one of these facts were true. She liked to think that she already knew her name, because it felt like they had met once long ago. Like they were old friends reunited in the mist of the trees. She _had _been watching her though, but had never found the courage, the reason, to reveal herself. Until now.

"I know," Cinder echoed, eyes flashing realization as they trailed. Suddenly, she brought her eyes back to Ivory's. "Who are you?"

Ivory tilted her head to the side. "I am Ivory."


	2. Shattered Ivory

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

**Shattered Ivory**

The reflection in the looking glass was a masterpiece. A work of art. Pure and innocent, breathtaking.

Beautiful.

How Ivory had grown to loathe that word. Although it may have been true in every way, shape, and form, that was all anyone saw of her. All they expected. Beauty. Perfection – because what was beauty without perfection?

And if there was something the least bit wrong, well, people never talked about that. They didn't notice or pretended not to. Saying or even thinking that there was something wrong with a form of perfection was surely a sin.

That was why blind eyes were often turned to the chip in the Ivory. If they didn't see it, it wasn't there. Close your eyes and the bad things were nonexistent. Ignorance was bliss and Ivory lived in an extraordinarily ignorant world.

She felt obligated to keep up the charade, to always apply herself. To make no mistake that would risk her appearing anything but perfect. It was a blessing and curse. However, most people didn't understand that. They didn't understand how someone could scorn the gift of beauty as a curse. That would make her selfish and ungrateful, wouldn't it?

Of course, most people didn't know that she felt her blessing to be a curse. They didn't ask. She most certainly didn't tell. When she was feeling down, they weren't going to question it. Inquire what was wrong, because what if what was wrong spoiled her image? Made her seem less than perfect.

It all came down to that – that one, seven-lettered, two-syllabled word. In the hours of sleep, that word had claws that sunk into her, reached deep within, curled around her still-beating heart, and ripped it from her body. The organ pulsed even outside of her body, blood fell from it, dripped onto her porcelain skin. It burned like acid, forming holes in her. Eating away at the oh-so beautifully flawless flesh.

A flash of stinging pain suddenly alerted her senses away from the gory images in her head. She opened her eyes and stared, startled and yet, relief flooded through her. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Her black eyes went from the cup she had thrown to the mirror. Both were shattered. And in her hand lay a sliver of glass. A thin cut oozed a dark pool of blood in the palm of her hand. She carefully picked up the glass and let it fall onto the wood floor. Her long, pale fingers curled into her hand, staining her fingertips in a wash of red.

She looked into what was left of the mirror, her reflection distorted. She brought her fingers to her lips, which were naturally red, the color only darkening further as the blood was applied. The metallic tasted filled her mouth. She felt so . . . savage. Wild.

Imperfect.

Ivory relished the very idea of imperfection. What would they think? Those who once thought so highly of her? Would they think she had gone mad? Off-kilter?

Or would they ignore what was so obvious? That she, in fact, _wasn't _perfect? That beauty was only skin deep?

A rush of something filled her. The need to get air. To be out there – in the wide open. So, cleansing the cut, but not the blood on her lips, she ventured out into the trees, plunging into the mist, the chill seeping inside her and nestling deep within her bones.

Out here, away from peering eyes, she felt so alive and free. The taste of it just about casted a spell on her. And then she heard the humming and was immediately placed in a trance. As always. She had heard it before and it sent the usual rush of heat through her as well as a shiver that danced up her spine. The mixed feelings differed greatly from each other, making her dizzy with wonder.

She followed the familiar sound down a familiar path and peered through trees at a familiar sight. It was her. The golden-haired angel. Her eyes were closed and her hands were in her lap. Her dress, the very same one she always adorned, was as tattered and ragged as ever. Her feet were bared and there were flowers in her hair. Her skin was marked with scars all along her arms and legs.

She was flawed.

Imperfect.

Ivory loved that about her. She was perfectly imperfect. A conundrum if there ever was one, but that was what Ivory felt. This humming girl had a pain seeping from her mouth even if she wouldn't allow herself to feel it. She was real. Human.

Something that no one would ever see Ivory as, but she wanted to learn. She wanted to learn how to be real. Human. Flawed. The longing drew her out of the trees and into the girl's view. The girl's eyes opened as she felt the presence. Her haunted blue eyes were wide, but not fearful.

As if she were attracted by a magnetic pull, Ivory found herself moving closer to the girl and did nothing to stop herself. She leaned down, eyes closed. Her lips, blood still wet, connected softly with the angel's. When she pulled away, she watched as the golden-haired girl's pink tongue flicked across her bottom lip. Blood ran down the side of her mouth and dripped onto her dress.

And then, their eyes met and she spoke.

"I am Cinder."

Cinder.

The name was a spark on her tongue. A flare inside her, making a kind of hope light up. She felt as though she could take flight.

"I know. I've been watching you." Only one of these facts were true. She liked to think that she already knew her name, because it felt like they had met once long ago. Like they were old friends reunited in the mist of the trees. She _had _been watching her though, but had never found the courage, the reason, to reveal herself. Until now.

"I know," Cinder echoed, eyes flashing realization as they trailed. Suddenly, she brought her eyes back to Ivory's. "Who are you?"

Ivory tilted her head to the side. "I am Ivory."


	3. Poison and Glass

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

**Poison and Glass**

Cinder stared down into the brown liquid. The steam wafted up, filling her nose with the pleasant smell of tea. A pleasant-smelling beverage for unpleasant people. Her step-mother and two step-sisters. She could hear them talking out in the dining room – a room too big with a too long table meant for too few people. Their voices rose and fell as the two sisters began their usual arguments. Not a day went by that they didn't get into a screaming-match. No winner there, just losers all around.

The blonde grazed her lips with her fingertips, remembering the bloody kiss. It had been days since the intimate exchange. Ivory had yet to kiss her again, but every day when she went to her favorite bench, there Ivory was, waiting. Sometimes it frightened her when she had to return to this place that wasn't really a home, not _her _home anyways, because she was so completely sure that it was never real. That Ivory was just some dream that would soon turn to dust when reality came back with a forceful shove. Relief always made her knees buckle when she found Ivory right where she left her, as if she had never left to begin with.

The two never ran out of things to say, stories to tell. Cinder's struggle with her step-family, catering to their every whim. Coming at their beck and call. Ivory's struggle with perfection and rising to expectations.

"You don't have to be perfect around me," Cinder had told her one day. "You can just be yourself."

"Myself?" Ivory murmured thoughtfully. "I don't think I know who that is."

Cinder laced her fingers through Ivory's and smiled. "Not yet, but maybe we can both meet her. Together."

When Ivory returned the smile, Cinder felt a flutter in her chest – her usual reaction to the dark-haired girl's smile.

Remembering that afternoon brought a genuine smile to Cinder's face, but it quickly diminished when she heard the yell, "Cinder! What is taking you so long?!"

"Coming!" she called back, hands gripping either side of the silver tray, but before she picked it up from the counter, she paused. Suddenly, the small vial in the brown pouch tied around her waist was incredibly heavy. Slowly, she drew her hands back and slipped her index finger and thumb into the flap of the pouch and withdrew the vial. Bringing it up to eye level, she stared at it, hard. It wasn't anything special, just a mini, clear container. The uniqueness of it lay within.

It was a strange, dark liquid. When she first caught a whiff of it, it tickled her nose before making it burn. That was when Ivory snatched it away. "It's not something you should smell for long," she had told her, corking it. "Not unless you want to _keep _the ability to smell."

"What is it?" Cinder inquired with interest.

"Just a little something I got from one of the dealers from the Underground. One drop would kill a grown man," Ivory placed it into a small brown pouch before using a long piece of twine to secure the bag around Cinder's waist. "It's for you."

"But . . . why?" she felt the need to ask despite having an idea.

"Just in case," Ivory replied with a small shrug. "In case it gets to be too much. And, when you're ready, I'll be waiting. I'll take you away from here."

"Really?"

"Promise."

"_Cinder!"_

Cinder blinked, torn out of her memory by the shrill voice of her step-mother. She closed her eyes for a moment. Then opened them, her decision made. She pulled the cork from the bottle, distributed a few careful drops to each cup then replaced the cork and stashed the vial back into her pouch. She stirred the tea again, lay the spoon to the side, picked up the tray once more, and didn't even hesitate as she left the kitchen and entered the dining room.

* * *

The cut would end up a scar. Ivory was ecstatic. She was marked by imperfection and she had someone who she could be herself around, not that she quite knew who herself was. Not now anyways, but soon. The scar seemed to say, _"You are imperfect." _Cinder said, _"You don't have to be perfect around me."_

And Ivory believed her, because Cinder's eyes spoke nothing but truth. There was always a play of emotions on her face. One Ivory most often saw was worry. It often appeared when she was about to leave, back to that mansion of horrors. It darkened her face, made her lip quiver, but she always managed the smallest of smiles before setting off.

Once, a few days after the kiss, Ivory had asked about that.

Cinder's face turned pink. She dropped her head and confessed to the ground. "Sometimes I wonder if you're really real. If any of this is. I use to imagine my mother and father were still alive. It'd seem so real that when I was brought back to the true reality of my life, I'd start crying. It was like my parents would die all over again every time I fantasized about them." She paused and brought her head up, teary blue eyes searching Ivory's face. "I don't want this to be pretend. I don't want to be alone again."

"Oh, Cinder," Ivory closed the gap between them, brought cool fingertips to Cinder's cheek, brushed a loose strand of hair back, behind her ear. "You won't ever be alone again. You have me now. I'm as real as the trees and the sky and the ground. I'm as real as you."

Cinder smiled. It was weak, but it was something. "Alright."

Ivory was once again staring into the mirror. It was still broken though the shards had been swept up long ago. Perhaps she should've gotten a new mirror, but, truth be told, she quite liked this one now. It was cracked, giving off twisted reflections to anyone who peered at it. It wasn't perfect. Or flawless. Now, it was like her.

But, maybe everyone was a little messed up. A little twisted. Cracked. Sometimes even broken beyond repair. It was what made them mortal. Human. Something that Ivory was slowly becoming. No one was perfect, despite what people, who saw her, thought. Mistakes and aches and broken hearts were just part of life. Like love and pain and joy and sorrow – _like Cinder's lullaby, _she thought. A smile appeared on her face. _Yes, I believe so. Cinder's lullaby is life. A haunting melody that stays with us till the day we die, bringing tears to our eyes and hope in our hearts._

Her finger traced over the cut. She remembered what she gave Cinder. The poison. She didn't know if Cinder would be able to use it, but if worse came to worse, she wanted her to be prepared to do something. Maybe worse wouldn't come to worse though, maybe the demands and ridicule would simply overwhelm her. Either way, the vial was always with Cinder if the need to use it ever arose.

When she had promised Cinder to take her away, she meant it. She meant it with her entire being. They'd take a journey, make discoveries, and, hopefully, start anew. They were both young and had their whole lives ahead of them. It was time to get out there and find, dare Ivory say, a new beginning. There were wonders around every corner and she was determined to find them all and take Cinder along for the ride.

Thinking of the blonde, her angel, sent a thrill through her and it was enough to get her out the door and off to their usual meeting place. Things felt different today. Ivory couldn't decide if it was good different or bad different. Just different.

Cinder was early. She sat on the stone bench, waiting for Ivory rather than the other way around. Upon seeing her, she rose to her feet and met her halfway. "I did it."

"You did . . . _it_?" Ivory's voice lowered to a whisper. "The . . . the _poison _it?"

"Yes. I was tired of being a maid. A slave. I wanted freedom. My own freedom. With you. No one will notice, because they hardly get out much," Cinder tilted her head to the side, looking like Ivory did the first time she introduced herself. "Ivory?"

"Yes?"

"You said you'd take me away from here."

"I did."

"You promised."

"Of course."

"Is . . . that a promise you had intentions of keeping?"

"I wouldn't have made it otherwise."

Cinder stared and Ivory stared back. Then Cinder leaned forward, slipped her arms around Ivory's neck, and kissed her. Ivory closed her eyes in response and snaked her own arms around Cinder's waist, kissing back. This wasn't like their first kiss. It was longer. Sweeter.

Perfect.

For once, Ivory felt no disgust toward the word, but rather, welcomed it. This kiss was Cinder's lullaby and cracked mirrors, igniting hopes and fraying dreams, coals ready to burn again and lingering fear of the unknown that awaited them.

But, that was okay, because whatever lay ahead, they would face it. Hand-in-hand. Imperfectly perfect. Flawlessly flawed. Not quite broken. Ready to take flight. Together.


	4. Shades of Crimson

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Part II: Little Red Riding Hood**

* * *

**Shades of Crimson**

Punch. Kick. Block.

Punch. Kick. Block.

There was a rhythm in Crimson's graceful, yet fierce moves as she unleashed blow after blow on the pummeled punching bag. A sheet of perspiration covered her body, soaking her tank. It dripped down her face, into her eyes, but she ignored the sting, harshly slamming her black-gloved hand into the leathery, cracked exterior.

A permanent anger remained inside Crimson, no matter how many times she let it out on the punching bag or – in some cases – another person. It just grew and grew, but even when it receded, it was still there. Waiting. Like some terrible monster. Stories of bogey men under beds and in closets flashed through the brunette's mind, causing her to hit harder. Faster.

One. Two. Three.

One. Two. Three.

Left. Right.

Left. Right.

Of course, it'd been like this ever since her granny died and her parents had suddenly reappeared to take her in. _'Take her in'_ – it sounded so pathetic. So sad. So . . . unbelievably true. Granny had taken care of her since she was little. She hardly knew her parents let alone saw them on a daily basis. She only recognized their faces from the photographs that hung on the walls of her Granny's house. She was seventeen. They were gone for most of her life. What made them think she wanted them now?

Angry tears sprung to Crimson's dark-brown eyes, only fueling her rage. They had a year with her. But only a year. When she turned eighteen. Graduated school. She was gone. Hell, she had been gone the day they brought her _"home"_. When she first entered that unfamiliar house with those unfamiliar people, she was quiet. At that time, she was able to seethe in silence. She didn't talk to them or make eye contact with them. She hardly left the room she was given.

They made her go to therapists. Shrinks. Each one wasn't too different from the last. Always tap-tap-tapping at her skull, trying to see what was inside. A few claimed she was merely suffering the loss of her grandmother. That it would get better with time. Months passed. It didn't. The birth-givers – she'd never give them the joy of hearing _mom _or _dad _leave her mouth – thought that something was wrong with her. That she was some kind of mental.

Then she started acting out. Seething quietly was no longer an option. All those bottled up emotions surfaced, forming a big blowout of fury. She trashed her room. Screamed. Took a swing at the male birth-giver when he tried to restrain her. Who were _they _to stop her? They _abandoned _her. They deserved whatever they got.

They were scared of her.

Her last therapist was pretty okay. Smart. She got through, but just _barely._ Enough to realize that Crimson needed some kind of outlet. Something to project her anger in a way that didn't involve vandalizing anything. So, here she was. The gym. There were five other punching bags in the room, but she had been going there for a few weeks already. In those weeks, she made it pretty clear – without even saying anything – that when _she _came in, everyone else better _get out_. She might accidently hit something – or some_one_ – that wasn't the bag.

And, for the most part, it was working. As long as you ignored the small flashes of anger that stuck with her long after the brunt of her rage was released. She still wanted nothing to do with the birth-givers though. She still resented them. That was a feeling that'd stick with her for a long time.

Her arms fell limp at her sides, fists throbbing despite the padding in her fingerless gloves. Her breathe left her in short, angry bursts, chest heaving with each inhale and exhale. Her tense muscles were sore, yet she enjoyed the feeling. Bending to grab the water bottle on the floor beside her, she turned, and froze. Her eyes narrowed.

She looked him up and down. His dark-brown, almost black, hair and equally dark eyes. That damn permanent smirk. The fitted black tee that showed off a hint of muscles underneath it and the black-and-red b-ball shorts that nearly matched her own.

"Wolf," she murmured.

His smirk widened. "What's up, Red?"


End file.
